


quiet places

by Frenchibi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Demons don't get colds, M/M, also yes I'm back!! after half a year!!! hello kids are y'all still around, still warming up into a new fandom lol, this is just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 13:16:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19746505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchibi/pseuds/Frenchibi
Summary: “I’m a demon,” Crowley croaked. “Demons don’t get strep throat.”“Don’t be fussy,” said the angel, clearly fussing. “Drink your tea.”





	quiet places

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. I can feel myself getting a cold and I projected. No excuses.
> 
> Also yes, hello, I am alive and well and back to writing!! Was inspired to do art for the last couple of months so writing fell a little flat, but then Good Omens strode back into my life and smacked me over the head with inspiration, so here we are! Expect more of this, probably! And possibly other fandoms, too!  
> (Also catch me snickering as I re-read the book, it's a treasure trove of fantastic lines!)
> 
> Please give Satie's Gymnopédies a listen - they struck me as very suitable for the mood of this.

“I’m a demon,” Crowley croaked. “Demons don’t get strep throat.”

“Don’t be fussy,” said the angel, clearly fussing. “Drink your tea.”

Crowley scowled, but brought the cup to his lips nonetheless. The hot liquid burned the inside of his throat, but he welcomed the feeling. It’d serve all those bacteria right, for infecting this body.

It was, indeed, quite ridiculous. And the only thing stopping him now from using a quick miracle to rid himself of this inconvenience was Aziraphale, propping up a pillow behind his back. Aziraphale, who had hurried over with tea and lozenges and an extra blanket when he’d heard Crowley’s voice on the phone.

Maybe, Crowley decided, having a cold for a few days wasn’t so bad, overall, if it came with all this extra care and attention.

“Perhaps you’ll gain a proper appreciation for illness if you experience it yourself,” the angel said, not without humour. “Would’ve done you all some good, before sending plagues upon humanity.”

Crowley wanted to argue that he hadn’t done that, anyhow, even if the commendation he’d received for the Plague suggested otherwise – but his throat was starting to feel miraculously soothed, so he settled for a scowl.

Aziraphale saw the expression and tutted, waving his hand. “Oh, you know what I mean. Them, obviously. Not you.”

“’s not very demonic,” Crowley said, put out. His throat protested, and he clamped his lips shut.

“Best not talk for a while, dear – it’d cause you pain, I’d expect.” Aziraphale didn’t sound particularly bothered by this. “It’s alright though – I’ve brought books.”

Of course he had.

“Angel, I don’t-”

“Oh, hush. I’ll read to you.”

Crowley hesitated. An evening in with the angel did sound quite lovely, cold or no, – but he felt duty-bound to resist. Not that anyone Below would notice, especially if there was no miracle-working involved, but still-

Even as he hesitated, Aziraphale had smoothed out the far side of the covers of Crowley’s too-large, too-stylish bed and planted himself beside him, small stack of books teetering at his side as he made himself comfortable. Crowley’s protests died in his throat (alongside plenty of pesky micro-organisms, hopefully). Instead, he leaned back into the pillow (much plumper and more homey than he remembered it being) and drew the mug back to his lips. Tiny miracles like this usually flew below the radar.

The inability to comment on what the angel was reading soon proved to be a gigantic nuisance – Crowley, as always, had plenty of sarcastic remarks at the tip of his tongue, and Aziraphale clearly noticed him squirming, for after finishing the first chapter, he lowered the book and gave him a reproachful look.

“Oh, stop fidgeting.”

It took all of Crowley’s self-control not to hiss at him, and the angel sighed.

“Well. Music, then, I should think.”

An old record player in the corner creaked into motion. Certainly not the type of thing Crowley would have invested in, but there it sat anyway, and soft, hesitant music filled the air.

Crowley frowned. “…Satie?”

“I’ve always found his work rather lovely. Experimental, surely, but lovely nonetheless.” He stopped, a small crease in his own brow. “I can change it, of course.”

Crowley considered this, but then found himself unexpectedly touched by the gesture, a clear attempt on the angel’s part of finding some middle ground between their respective tastes. A little misguided, maybe, but it wasn’t like Crowley hated classical music to begin with.

He shook his head, eyes sweeping the room idly as he listened.

The slow, melancholic notes that surrounded them rather called for more sombre weather outside – a muffled storm would have well suited the mood. As it was, the sky was unexpectedly uncooperative – it was a mild evening, slowly darkening, as the sun had already set. Not quite as unfriendly as might have been appropriate.

Still. Crowley set aside his mug and sank back into the pillow, allowing his posture to droop slightly towards Aziraphale, who had lifted up his book once more, to continue reading in silence.

The angel barely raised an eyebrow – he did, however, raise his arm, just so. Enough to not be an accident, but an invitation.

There was a brief moment of apprehension, but Crowley swallowed hard against it. He knew Aziraphale was not flippant with physical affection – an after-effect of heaven, no doubt, and prolonged exposure to its sterile, cold atmosphere. He’d often found himself wondering, idly, if his flat reminded the angel of Upstairs. But then again, it wasn’t nearly so empty and cold anymore, not with Aziraphale’s fingerprints all over the place; books he’d left behind, small trinkets, plants gifted once he’d figured out Crowley’s ambitions with them. Pieces of the angel that stuck out like splashes of colour on a blank canvas, and made the minimalist flat feel almost like a home.

Not that he would admit it. But this, this offer – it was not something he was inclined to turn down.

A part of him, in the very back of his mind, chided against what he was about to do. They’d only recently learned the End was approaching, and faster than anticipated – in a few years, they’d have to take on their respective roles to ensure the antichrist was raised normal and human, rather than evil incarnate, in a last-ditch effort to derail an ineffable plan. It all felt rather surreal, still, but the threat of Consequences was ever-present in the back of his mind whenever he spent time with the angel, no matter how much he cherished it.

Well. He’d always come back, until then, and he supposed that somewhere along the line, this had become his truth, and not a decision he would consciously change anymore. Frankly, they’d been tied together for quite some time, even if the angel was loathe to acknowledge it out loud. Crowley was content to proceed at his pace – or, well, he had been, since the future seemed to stretch so wide ahead of them.

So why not indulge, now? All things considered?

Crowley let himself tip sideways, until his head came to rest in the angel’s lap.

Aziraphale’s lip quirked into the smallest hint of a smile, and he shifted the book into one hand, placing the other lightly on Crowley’s back. His fingers traced miniscule patterns that left a trail of warmth in their wake, and Crowley let his eyes fall shut. The touch washed over him like the tentative keys of the piano on the record, and he could already feel the exhaustion ebbing away.

Maybe demons could, indeed, catch colds – but perhaps they also recovered much quicker. In fact, his throat was almost back to feeling normal again.

“…d’you put something in that tea?” he mumbled, shifting slightly.

Aziraphale turned a page. “Oh, yes,” he said idly. “Honey.”

“No, I meant… never mind.”

He could hear the angel’s soft smile without having to look up to see it. “No miracles involved, if that’s what you’re asking. Just me, dear.”

But really, right then, with Aziraphale’s warmth surrounding him, “just me” actually felt quite miraculous.

**Author's Note:**

> Special shoutout to my friend Belle who is the real MVP for screaming about good omens with me and giving me the creative impulses I needed to get back to writing!! (When you're reading this - good morning! Ain't time zones a fun thing xD)
> 
> find me on tunglr dot hell @frenchibi (or on like, them other platforms. insta. twitter. whatever. Come yell!)


End file.
